Night Police
by flaretempest
Summary: After the events of season one, Sam and Dean awaken from the car crash and encounter a mysterious organization. AU.
1. Chapter 1

When Sam Winchester awoke, an intense, bright light shone into his right eye. He tried to squeeze his eyes shut, but his right eyelid was clamped open by a plastic, gloved hand. Straining against the light, he saw a black silhouette hunched over his prone body, one hand holding the flashlight that burned like the sun, the other hand holding his right eye open. In the lower left corner of his vision, he saw another silhouette standing against a white background.

"Finally, a response," said the figure hunched over him, who then moved the flashlight over to Sam's left eye and applied the same vice-like grip. "You chose a good facility, but next time, try to keep it in-house."

"We weren't fast enough, I admit," said one of the shadows in the corner. "The father was too far gone by the time we recovered them. Shipping him to Chicago would have taken too long. Here was our best bet to make sure the whole package got better."

The light clicked off and the hand was removed. Sam immediately shut his eyes, stars dancing like he had just stared into the sun. He heard footsteps as the two silhouettes walked away, echoing in his eardrums like a gentle drumbeat.

"I suppose you did make the right call. Right now, that room is one of the safest in the world…" he heard the first figure say before he drifted back to sleep.

* * *

The voice of his brother pulled Sam back from the black void of a dreamless sleep. "Sam… Sam… SAM!"

"What?" gasped Sam as he awoke to find Dean's face inches away. "What is it?"

Dean released Sam's shoulders and slumped back into a cheap plastic chair, a smile of relief spread across his face. He had stitches above his left eye and was wearing a hospital gown. "I've been trying to wake you for ten minutes. I'm glad you're alright."

"Where are we?" asked Sam. "And what happened?"

"I'm not sure," said Dean. "All I remember is the car getting smashed. But it looks like we're stuck in another freak show."

Their room was windowless, the only lighting provided by harsh overhead fluorescent bulbs. The walls were a plain, sterile white and the whole place smelled like disinfectant and plastic. And placed around the room were tools of supernatural protection.

An iron horseshoe and a jeweled hamsa were mounted above the doorway. Hanging from the ceiling between the two beds was a glass nazar, a silver crucifix, and a gilded Eye of Horus amulet. Dreamcatchers were suspended above both Sam and Dean's beds. And on the end table between them sat a black maneki-neko, a small clay pot overflowing with four-leaf clovers, and a half-dozen bulbs of garlic. An envelope and a small white box, decorated with a red ribbon and bow, were next to them.

"What the hell is this?" said Sam, wide-eyed. And then it dawned on him. "And where the hell is dad?"

Dean grimaced and looked at the floor. "I don't know." He turned his gaze towards the envelope. "But I'm sure that whoever left that does."

Sam picked the envelope up. It was a plain, white, letter-size envelope with a red wax seal; stamped into the wax was the silhouette of a howling wolf outlined against the full moon.

"Have you ever seen this symbol?" Sam asked.

"No," said Dean. "But I hope it doesn't mean werewolves. I hate those furry bastards."

Sam broke the seal. He examined the inside of the envelope, frowned, and turned it upside down. A fine white powder spilled from it and landed like snow on the table.

"I hope someone didn't just try to poison us," he said.

Dean ran his index finger through the clump of powder and, before Sam could stop him, stuck it in his mouth.

"Dean!" exclaimed Sam. "What if it's poison?"

Dean withdrew his finger. "It's not," he said, wiping his finger on the hem of his hospital gown. "It's salt."

Sam looked at Dean, then at the salt, then at the charms placed around the room. "Who are these people?"

He examined the envelope again and withdrew a small, white card. "Get Well Soon!" was printed in sharp, black Gothic font across the front. He opened it and found a message printed in 12-pt Baskerville:

May 7th, 2006

Samuel and Dean Winchester

University of Missouri Hospital

Room 213

One Hospital Drive

Columbia, MO 65212

Mr. and Mr. Winchester,

I hope that you are both doing well. My organization has always had a passing interest in you two, but since this unfortunate incident, you have both moved up to 'Priority One', so to speak. You are sharp and brave men, so I will be curt. At approximately 11:30PM on May 6th, your vehicle was struck by a truck whose driver was possessed by a lower-level demon, and you two and your father were knocked unconscious. Your vehicle was discovered by a passing civilian police officer, who immediately called for emergency medical personnel. Naturally, as soon your rather unique vehicle was called-in, we sent our own agents to the scene, and they took command. All three of you were immediately transported via helicopter to the nearest Level I trauma center.

Normally, we would prefer for cases such as yours to be handled by our own medical team, but your father's condition warranted a more immediate response. Given such circumstances, you were transported to the nearest hospital and guarded by our agents.

Unfortunately, despite the best efforts of the surgery team, your father succumbed to his injuries and passed away within hours. We immediately took custody of his body and took the liberty of burying him next to your mother. We apologize for not consulting you two, but you were unconscious and rapid action was needed.

The entire hospital bill will be covered by our organization. The hospital staff have been given notice to let you leave at any time you wish, with no paperwork or questioning. Please destroy this note when you are through with it.

Yours,

Captain Wilkerson

Below the signature was stamped the same symbol that was embedded into the wax seal. But this time, a Latin phrase bordered the symbol: _lux in tenebris lucet_.

"Light that shines in the darkness," Sam translated, muttering aloud.

"What the hell does this all mean?!" said Dean. He grabbed the card from Sam, shaking with anger. He reread it, eyes scanning furiously across the page. "What the hell is going on?!"

Sam leaned back into his pillow and closed his eyes before his tears could flow out. "Well… dad's dead," he murmured to himself.

Dean shook him until he opened his eyes. Tears streaked down Dean's face. "So what the fuck do we do now, Sam? Dad's dead, we got some creepy note from God knows who, and we don't even know where the hell we are."

Blinking away tears, Sam looked at the note again. He pointed to the signature. "The first thing we should we is figure out who this is."

Sam grabbed the white box and untied the red ribbon. Inside, resting on a bed of salt, was a cell phone. Sam gingerly removed it from the box, shook the grains of salt away, and flipped it open. The screen flickered to life. "1 New Contact".

Sam opened the phone's list of contacts. "Captain Wilkerson - 212-470-8827". Heartbeat rising, he pressed CALL.

Sam put the call on speaker, and the phone's distorted ringing filled the room. Dean sat up, staring in silence at the phone.

"Sam and Dean Winchester, I presume," answered a deep, yet friendly voice not unlike that of a salesman or telemarketer. "I've been expecting this call for a while now."

"Who are you? What you have done to us? Where is our dad?" shouted Dean, directing his anger and confusion at the voice coming through the little cell phone. "You better tell us, or I'll-"

"Not so fast," interrupted the voice, having adopted a brisk and business-like tone. "I am Captain Wilkerson, but before we go any further, I must confirm your identities. So tell me, what is the make, model, and license plate number of your car, Dean?"

Dean gave Sam a sideways glance, then answered: "She's a 1967 Chevy Impala. Kansas license plate, KAZ 2Y5."

"Good, good," replied Wilkerson. "And what is jammed in your car's ash tray?"

"A little toy army man," answered Sam, staring at the phone with wide eyes.

"Perfect. I suppose that's the best check that we can do over the phone," said Wilkerson. "As I said, I am Captain George Wilkerson, of the Night Police. And I would like to invite the two of your to join our order."

"Your- your order?" sputtered Dean. "Who the hell are you people?"

"Like I said, I am Captain George Wilkerson of the Night Police. We are a group dedicated to the same mission as you two. We hunt demons, ghosts, ghouls, and everything else that goes bump in the night. Except on a much larger scale than you do on your own."

"Larger scale?" repeated Sam. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," said Wilkerson, in the tone used by a patient teacher, "That we are an organization of thousands of people dedicated to keeping the supernatural in check. And the very fact that you haven't heard of us means that we are successful.

"We are basically the Men-in-Black: a modern, secular, militarized version of the knightly orders of old. We are a private, black organization that keeps the peace between the natural and supernatural. We operate in all U.S. territories. And the public knows nothing about us.

"You see, just how bad would it be if the general public knew about the supernatural? The average man wants nothing more than to go to work, make some money, and come home to a nice family. And knowing that a soul-sucking ghoul has an eye on his young daughter would be rather distracting. So, we come in, do a nice, quiet job, and the man continues living a happy life, none the wiser. It is our job to prevent the widespread panic that would result if people actually knew that a group of liches controlled much of the world's politics, or that zombie outbreaks actually were quite common in parts of the world, or that, Heaven forbid, everyone found out that Hell actually is real.

"We are the Night Police, keeping the peace between humans and the things that go bump in the night. And would like to invite you to join us."

Sam and Dean stared at the phone in disbelief. They couldn't believe what they were hearing. "This… this sounds absurd," said Sam. "This… doesn't sound real."

"Yes, that's how most people react," said Wilkerson, in a chipper voice. "Tell you what, why don't you come down to Florida and you can see us for yourselves. Come to the Stay Inn in Bartow, Florida. Today's May 9th, so make sure you arrive by… May 13th. And when you check-in, say you're with Blackwell Publishing."

"Okay… that sounds great and all," said Sam patronizingly. "But how can we even get there without our car?"

"Yeah, without _my_ car," emphasized Dean. "And how can we trust you?"

"Oh, right. Well, I don't know how else I can gain your trust. But I'm sure that after we've meet in person, you'll change your tune. Feel free to come armed, if you feel the need.

"And as for your car, it is currently parked at a Hampton Inn that is about a ten minute walk south of the hospital. When you check out of the hospital, you will receive most of your belongings, as well as a room key for room 212. The car keys will be in there, along with some new clothing and weapons, courtesy of us. Feel free to spend the night there, too.

"And now I must say goodbye; I have things to do and people to command, after all. I hope to see you in a few days. Good-bye."

Sam and Dean stared the phone in silence, and then looked at each. "Well, what do we do now?" asked Sam.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Sam and Dean checked out of the hospital. A nurse handed their wallets, keys, cell phones, as well as a bag containing two new sets of clothing, no questions asked. Sam and Dean dug through their wallets and found a few new items: two hundred dollars of cash, a five hundred dollar Exxon Mobil prepaid gas card, a room key for the Hampton Inn, and two new fake driver's licenses.

"Hello, Mr. Daniel Redford of Colorado," said Dean, holding out his hand to Sam. "I'm Mr. Steven Schuster of Montana. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too," muttered Sam as he studied a small, credit-card sized envelope that was in his wallet. IN CASE OF EMERGENCY was printed on the front. On the back was a short list of instructions:

1\. Unfold contents.

2\. Place on level surface with circle facing upwards.

3\. Stay in the circle until the danger has passed.

WARNING: Single use only.

He stuck the envelope back into his wallet. "Just what the hell are we getting ourselves into?"

* * *

Ten minutes later, in the parking lot of the Hampton Inn, tears of joy streaked down Dean's face as he ran his hands over his restored Impala.

"She looks as good as new!" he said as he opened the driver's door. "She even smells the exact same!"

Sam opened the trunk and threw in the two suitcases he had retrieved from room 212; they each contained toiletries and a week's supply of clothing. Their collection of weapons was intact; in fact, everything had been neatly sorted and cleaned.

"They even kept the army man in the ash tray!" shouted Dean from the driver's seat. The Impala roared to life as he started the engine.

Sam sat down in the passenger and opened the glovebox. Everything was just like it had been before the accident. Well, except for one thing.

"These guys have thought of everything," he said as he noticed the electronic tolling transponder mounted near the top of the windshield.

* * *

Four days and one leisurely road trip later, the Impala rumbled into the parking lot of the Stay Inn in Bartow, Florida. Dean circled the parking lot and then parked near the hotel's entrance.

"So, Mr. Redford, what you think of this place?" asked Dean as reached under his seat and retrieved the handgun that was taped underneath. He racked the slide and stowed the gun in his coat pocket.

"Dean, don't you think you will look suspicious wearing a leather jacket in ninety-degree weather?"

"Not unless you can think of a better way to smuggle our guns in there."

Sam sighed, put on his coat, and stowed his handgun in an interior pocket. The Florida sun beat down on them as they exited the Impala and walked through the main entrance. When the automatic doors opened, the two brothers were greeted with the arctic blast of the air conditioning unit.

The hotel looked like it had seen better days. The paint was cracked and the light fixtures were covered in dust, but Dean put on his most charming smile for the young lady behind the counter.

"Hello, I'm Steven Schuster and this is Daniel Redford," he said, gesturing at Sam. "We are here with Blackwell Publishing."

"Oh, yes," said the receptionist. "Mr. Wilkerson told me that you two were coming."

"He did now?" said Dean, raising an eyebrow at Sam.

"Yes, well, the company rented out the whole hotel, and he said he wanted to personally make sure that we had a room ready for you. You two are in room 142," she said as she handed Dean a key.

"That's perfect," said Dean as he pocketed it. "Now, where can we find Mr. Wilkerson?"

"He said that he'd be in the conference room all day. Go left, turn the corner, go past the restaurant, and it will be the next door on your left."

"Thanks, darling. If I need anything, I'll be sure to call the front desk," replied Dean with wink. The receptionist blushed as Sam and Dean walked down the carpeted hallway.

Sam and Dean tried to walk as casually as possible, but they were on edge. They heard voices at the end of the hallway, and it was difficult to stop themselves from pulling out their handguns. At the corner, they stopped, and Dean poked his head around.

At the end of the hallway, near the door to the conference room, mounted on an easel was a sign that said "Blackwell Publishing Executive Retreat." Muffled voices could be heard from behind the door. Three men in business attire were lounging on chairs in front of the door. One was smoking a cigarette, one was reading a newspaper, and one was eating a McDonald's combo meal. All three of them looked bored. The smoker was looking in Dean's direction, but didn't give any indication that he saw Dean peek around the corner.

"What did you see?" whispered Sam.

"Three guys in suits sitting around outside the conference room. There's people in there, but I can barely hear them."

"Did they see you?"

"I thought one guy was looking at me, but he didn't even move his head when I stuck my head around."

"Okay, let's go," said Sam, as he reached inside his coat, ready to draw his handgun if necessary. He and Dean turned the corner.

But instead of sitting down, looking bored, all three men were now standing in the Weaver stance, handguns pointed directly at Sam and Dean.

"Sam and Dean Winchester?" said the one who had been smoking, his cigarette now smoldering on the hallway floor. "Put your hands up and walk over here, slowly."

Sam and Dean released the grips on their handguns, withdrew their hands from their coats, and slowly raised them. They walked slowly and deliberately down the hallway toward the three guards.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell us who you are?" said Dean.

"That isn't for me to decide," said the guard in command. "Stop when you are ten feet away from us and put your hands behind your heads."

Sam and Dean stopped, shifted the position of their hands, and the guard who had been reading the newspaper came forward and patted them down. "They're both armed, sir. One pistol on each of them."

"The Captain expected that," said the guard in command. Without turning his head, he backed up and knocked on the door twice, and pushed it open a crack. "Captain, Sam and Dean Winchester are here."

The door opened and a tall man in a jet black suit and matching tie stepped out. His wide smile was betrayed by the lines and shadows under eyes, eyes that had seen any number of unseen horrors. He held out his hand and in the familiar, friendly voice, this time free of the cell phone's distortion, said, "Sam, Dean, it's great to finally meet you. I am Captain George Wilkerson."

The guards relaxed and put away their guns, and Sam and Dean put down their hands. "I thought you'd be taller," joked Dean as he shook Wilkerson's hand.

"And you are exactly as tall as your file said you'd be," he replied.

"Not to be rude," said Sam as he shook Wilkerson's hand, "but can you tell us what is going on?"

"Of course," said Wilkerson. "But first, you must come in and meet everyone."

Wilkerson led them through the door into the conference room. Inside was one long table, around which sat half a dozen men in suits of varying color and style. He introduced them one by one.

First, he pointed to a man wearing an ashen-grey suit and a dull, plain red tie, a man whose appearance was instantly forgettable, but whose eyes were perceptive and guarded. His gaze flicked over them, analyzing them instantly, but he stayed silent. "This is Lieutenant Philip Silva, on-site commander of our intelligence unit."

Next, Wilkerson pointed to a very serious, bespectacled man in a navy pinstriped suit. This man would not have looked out of place in a lecture hall or library, but Sam and Dean sensed a dangerous aura emanating from him. "This is Captain Carl Dunbar, on-site commander of our covert operations group." Sensing Sam and Dean's confusion, he clarified, "He's commander of the clean-up crew."

"And very underappreciated, I must say," said Captain Dunbar dourly.

"Moving along, here are two of my men, Lieutenants Daniel Vicario and Frederick Pearce," said Wilkerson, pointing to two men. Both reclined leisurely back in their chairs, mischievous smiles on their faces as they evaluated Sam and Dean. Lieutenant Vicario wore a gaudy, bright red suit and matching red tie; Lieutenant Pearce wore a dull, dark green suit and dark green tie. Both of their ties had matching images of a roaring bear outlined in white, paws grasping the emblem of 'Wash U'.

"Nice to meet you," said Lieutenant Vicario warmly, in a voice that filled the room.

"Yes, nice to meet you," echoed Lieutenant Pearce, guardedly.

"And finally," said Wilkerson, moving along, "we have Lieutenant Andrew Garza, on-site commander of our air unit." He pointed to a man wearing an ill-fitting, rumpled black suit; he looked like he belonged in jeans, a leather jacket, and aviator sunglasses instead.

"Air unit?" questioned Sam.

"Helicopters," answered Lieutenant Garza, gruffly. "But sometimes small airplanes."

Wilkerson sat down at the head of the table. "And finally there's me, commander of the Tactical Response Group and designated commander of this operation." He gestured to two empty seats between Captain Dunbar and Lieutenant Silva, and Sam and Dean lowered themselves into them.

"Now, Lieutenant Silva, please continue your report," said Wilkerson.

"Yes, sir. Our surveillance teams have confirmed that the most recent kidnapping victims have also been possessed. That brings the total number of people under the ifrit's control to fifty-three."

"Hold on," interrupted Dean. "What ifrit?"

Captain Dunbar's eyebrows furrowed with impatience, but Wilkerson answered with the patience of a schoolteacher. "The ifrit is the reason that we are here, in a run-down hotel under the guise of a company retreat." He tossed a folder over to Dean.

Inside the folder was a stack of papers and the photograph of a bearded man with a white turban. Beneath the photo was a dossier:

NAME: Hulon Mitchell Jr., AKA Yahweh ben Yahweh

BORN: 10/27/1935 in Kingfisher, OK

PERMANENT ADDRESS: Miami, FL

OCCUPATION: Cult leader (Nation of Yahweh)

SUMMARY: Founder and leader of black supremacist cult Nation of Yahweh. Indoctrinated followers believe that he is the son of God. Monitored by Night Police from March 1990 to November 1990 as suspect in twelve murder cases. Attempted to use victims' blood to summon ifrits, but demonstrated incorrect and rudimentary knowledge of summoning techniques. Evidence turned over to FBI in November 1990 resulted in arrest for conspiracy to commit murder. Convicted, but released on parole in 2001.

RECOMMENDATION: Low-level monitoring

"Looks like you've dealt with this guy before," noted Sam.

"We have," sighed Wilkerson. "According to the case file, our patrol officers viewed him as a very low-level threat. Just another crazy guy who wanted to summon a demon, but couldn't figure out how and tried to use what he saw in movies."

"It says he committed murders," said Dean.

"It does. But as long as there was no supernatural aspect to them, we do not get involved," replied Wilkerson.

"But this guy was going around murdering people and you just let him?" said Dean indignantly, voice rising.

"Listen, Dean," said Wilkerson, impatience creeping into his voice. "We aren't normal police. Our jurisdiction is only in matters of the supernatural. We did report him to the FBI, who did what they do best. But you wouldn't expect the FBI to be hunting ghosts, would you? So we leave normal crime to them, and they leave the paranormal to us. Are we clear?"

Dean slumped down in his seat, unsatisfied. Sam nodded.

"Good. Now the reason we are here today is because this fellow escaped his parole and has been hard at work re-establishing his cult. And apparently he learned something in prison, because he has managed to summon low-level demons into each of his followers. And they've been busy kidnapping people to grow his little army.

"I've been here for about one week now; Lieutenant Silva has been here for two. We've used the time to plan and gather intelligence. And we also teamed up with our local patrol officers to run interference and prevent more kidnappings. And soon, hopefully, we'll be able to execute our plan."

"What's stopping you from-" started Sam before the ringing of the telephone on the table in front of Wilkerson interrupted. He picked up before its first ring faded.

"Captain George Wilkerson, Tactical Response Group," he said. "Yes, I completely understand, sir. As per usual, we will be swift, silent, and effective… Thank you very much, sir. We will contact you immediately once the operation is complete. Good-bye."

Wilkerson put the phone down. "That was the Deputy Attorney General," he announced. "We have permission to proceed. We will execute tomorrow at 0200. Everyone relax and get a good night's sleep. Vicario and Pearce, stay a little longer to brief the Winchesters. Everyone else, dismissed."

Wilkerson, Dunbar, Silva, and Garza stood up and left the room. Lieutenants Vicario and Pearce remained seated across from Sam and Dean. Vicario cleared his throat.

"So, are either of you afraid of heights?"

* * *

Twelve hours later, at 0130, Sam Winchester found himself in the back of a Black Hawk helicopter preparing to take off from Bartow Municipal Airport. He was sitting in the middle of a group of ten officers from the Night Police Tactical Response Group RED Unit. Each of them wore a navy blue combat uniform, a combat vest, a kevlar helmet, and night vision goggles and carried an assault rifle, a pistol, a combat knife, and several different types of grenades. Sam was dressed the same but was unarmed, save for a smoke grenade that released rosemary incense. "In case things get hairy out there," explained Lieutenant Vicario.

The Lieutenant was riding in another Black Hawk. There were four Black Hawks in all, each carrying ten officers and a flight crew of three. Sam was riding with Sergeant Lawrence Taylor, commander of RED Unit's 2nd Squad.

"Just stay with me, and everything will be okay," reminded Sergeant Taylor, more to reassure himself than Sam. Why did he have to get stuck with chaperone duty?

Outside, Sam heard the engines of the three nearby Sikorsky Skycranes roar to life, and he knew it was time. The Skycranes, each equipped with a two thousand five hundred gallon water tank, rose slowly from the tarmac and flew southwest in a V formation, towards Brewster. Eight seconds behind them, the Black Hawks rose into the night and followed them.

* * *

On a ridge overlooking the once-thriving town of Brewster, Florida, Dean peered through infrared lenses at the abandoned buildings below. He could make out about four dozen distinct forms. All people who were controlled by demons.

Brewster was once a thriving town, but now all that remained were a few hollowed-out buildings and the ruins of the town's power plant, whose crumbling smokestack still dominated the skyline. GREEN Unit's 1st squad was spread out on the ridge overlooking the ghost town, each officer having a clear line of sight. The officer to Dean's left manned a light machine gun; the others carried assault rifles. Dean was unarmed; he was empty-handed except for the binoculars. On his right, Captain Wilkerson was staring at his watch and Lieutenant Pearce was looking through his own binoculars.

"Is 2nd Squad in position?" asked Wilkerson.

"Yes, sir," answered Pearce. 2nd Squad was positioned in a treeline to the northeast. Together, the two squads formed a pincer shape around Brewster; 1st Squad positioned south of the town and 2nd Squad positioned to the east. 3rd and 4th Squads were on standby with pursuit vehicles, ready to reinforce their comrades or chase down fleeing demons.

Wilkerson's watch let out a gentle beep, and he keyed his radio. "All units, this is WOLF Actual, the party starts in thirty seconds. GREEN-1 and GREEN-2, prepare to fire on my command." He nodded at Pearce. "Play the music."

Pearce picked up a small remote control and pressed play, and a dozen speakers concealed around the perimeter of Brewster sprang to life. They started playing a slowed-down version of a song recognizable to any demon: a Latin exorcism chant.

Through the binoculars, Dean saw all the forms in the ghost town immediately stand up, cover their ears, and stumble out of the abandoned buildings, searching for the source of the wretched chant. They were so distracted that none of them noticed the sound of approaching helicopters.

The three Sikorsky Skycranes appeared out of the darkness, racing towards Brewster like three hungry lions chasing an injured gazelle. Once over Brewster, the lead helicopter signaled, and in unison, the three Skycranes dumped six thousand gallons of Holy Water on the demonic masses.

The demons howled like they had been showered with molten lead. Wilkerson couldn't help but smile at their pain, and he gave the command: "1st and 2nd Squads, open fire."

The light machine gun next to Dean opened up, firing hundreds of wooden Palo Santo bullets into the demons. The rest of 1st and 2nd Squad joined in with their assault rifles, easily finding targets with their night vision goggles. Then, the Black Hawks arrived.

* * *

"All gunners, fire at will," ordered Lieutenant Garza from the lead Black Hawk. The helicopters' door gunners obliged him, raining Palo Santo bullets down upon the writhing mass of demons. After circling the town once, the helicopters split off and headed toward their designated landing sites.

Sam's Black Hawk landed in a clearing surrounded by abandoned buildings. "You boys know the drill," barked Sergeant Taylor. "Secure the area and apprehend all demons." He turned to Sam. "And you, stay by the helicopter and set this up," he said as he tossed him a folded nylon sheet and four stakes.

Sam ducked out of the helicopter, mindful to stay out of the line of fire of the door gunner, who was providing overwatch. The officers of 2nd Squad had cuffed a half dozen nearby demons, locking them in pure iron handcuffs engraved with a litany of magical symbols. They were now clearing buildings with a combination of salt grenades, rosemary incense grenades, and Palo Santo bullets.

Sam unfolded the white nylon sheet. Painted in the center was a magical circle of entrapment. Sam recognized some symbols that he had seen before in a Devil's Trap, but the rest were beyond him. Surrounding the center entrapment circle were thirteen smaller circles. These smaller circles were adorned with Arabic letters.

"Stake it down before the helicopter blows it away," ordered Sergeant Lawrence. With one demon in each hand, he began dragging the incapacitated demons into the circle of entrapment. After securing the demons in the clearing, he keyed his radio. "2nd Squad, report."

"We've cleared our assigned area, sarge," reported an officer. "We're returning to the landing area with some captives."

"Good work, boys, now let's-"

"WOLF Actual, this is RED Actual," interrupted the voice of Lieutenant Vicario. "We have a sighting of the ifrit. As we suspected, he's holed up in the power plant's old smokestack. Apparently he was too smart to be flushed out, over."

"Acknowledged," answered Wilkerson. "RED-1 and RED-2, set up a perimeter but do not engage. GREEN-3, send in your two flamethrowers. GREEN-4, move up and assist RED-3 and RED-4 with clearing operations. GREEN-1 and GREEN-2, maintain overwatch. Over."

"You heard him," said Sergeant Taylor to the squad. "You can come, but you must stay with me. You don't fuck with an ifrit," he said to Sam.

Taylor, Sam, and the rest of 2nd Squad moved to their new positions. The smokestack rose from the ground like a dying tree. It was covered with cracks and overgrown with moss and ivy. The once-proud power plant was now nothing more than a collection of low brick walls no higher than a man's chest. 1st and 2nd Squads crouched behind these walls, assault rifles aimed at the dilapidated smokestack.

There were several large, man-sized holes at the base of the smoke stack. In the moonlight, Sam thought he could see the outline of a man, but it wasn't clear… like it was surrounded by wisps of smoke.

Lieutenant Vicario plopped down next to Sam, eyes trained on the smokestack's base. He flashed another mischievous smile. "You're in for a real treat," he said as a black SUV drove up. Two men with large tanks on their backs got out and slowly approached the smokestack. Flamethrowers.

When the ifrit spotted them, it let out a howl of anger. Purple flames engulfed its body, dissolving its human host and revealing its true form: a demonic, winged monster of purple fire. With another howl, it launched itself towards the men with the flamethrowers.

Sam got ready to pull the pin on his incense grenade, but Vicario stopped him. "Watch."

Despite a flaming monster rushing towards them, the two officers reacted with all the nonchalance in the world. In unison, they calmly raised their flamethrower guns and squeezed the triggers. A stream of Holy Oil sprayed at the charging ifrit, followed one millisecond later by a gout of Holy Fire as the oil ignited.

The Holy Fire engulfed the ifrit, stopping it in its tracks. Its purple flames were completely covered by the orange tongues of holy flame. The ifrit released one final scream of pain as its body turned to ash, and then it was nothing more but dust.

The two officers stepped back. Three officers from RED-2 approached and scooped the ashes into a sack with all the ceremony of scooping day-old dog poop. The mission was over.

"So what do you think of all that?" asked Wilkerson. He approached Sam from the black SUV, Dean in tow.

"I don't know what to say," replied Sam, feeling overwhelmed. "The machine guns, the helicopters, the flamethrowers… all _this_ ," he said, sweeping his arms wide and gesturing at the officers who were dragging away demons. "How is this even possible?"

"That will all be shared in due time," said Wilkerson. "If you decide to join us."

"Join you?" echoed Dean incredulously. "We barely know you."

"Yes, but we know a lot about you two," said Wilkerson. "Out of all the hunters in the United States, you two are among the best. So why not stop playing JV and move yourselves up to varsity? We can supply you with weapons, training, everything you need."

Sam and Dean looked at each other. "Look, we really appreciate this," said Sam, "But this is just so overwhelming…"

"I thought you'd say that," said Wilkerson. "So give it some time. You have my number. And who knows, we may run into each other again." He tossed Dean a key.

"That's the only spare key to your Impala. We had it made when getting her fixed. I took the liberty of having one of my men pack her up and bring her over," Wilkerson said. He jerked his thumb backwards. "She's over that way, on the side of the road. I figured you two wouldn't want to share a hotel with us for any longer than you had to. I know you guys like to leave quickly."

"Thanks," said Dean. He took a minute to take one last look around. "But what's going to happen to these people?"

The remaining possessed humans were being led to the entrapment circles. Steel cylinders were placed in the small circles surrounding the main entrapment circle. An Arabic chant was being recited by nearby officers; when the chant concluded, the demonic smoke flowed out of the humans and into the steel cylinders.

"The insides of those cylinders are coated with iron. We suck the demon out of the human and trap it in there, for a very painful and eternal prison sentence," said Wilkerson. "After all, if we just exorcise them, they'll just go back to Hell and try again later. We prefer to lock them up in a place that they can never escape from."

"And where's that?" asked Sam.

"An old iron mine underneath a mountain. And also the world's most secure prison for the supernatural."

Dean looked around again. More Night Police officers, presumably from the clean-up crew, had arrived and set up temporary medical stations. A little girl, no older than seven, was screaming in pain as a nurse carefully removed the Palo Santo fragment that was embedded in her arm.

"There's gotta be a better method than this," said Dean, thinking aloud.

"If you don't agree with our methods, don't join us," said Wilkerson. "Just know that we've been doing this for a lot longer than most."

"And how long would that be?" asked Sam.

"About one hundred years," answered Wilkerson. "And if you excuse me, I must now see to my men." He started walking away, then turned. "And if you have had enough thinking, give me a call any time. We can always use some capable new officers."

"We'll see," said Dean, and the two brothers turned and walked towards the Impala.

"You know, Sammy," said Dean as he climbed in and shut the driver's door. "Things just got a lot more complicated."

"Yeah, but there's still demons to hunt and people to save," said Sam. "And I still have a stupid lunk like you for a brother."

Dean smiled. "I guess things aren't so bad after all." The Impala rumbled up the highway, the rising sun illuminating the road ahead.


	2. Chapter 2

"Another day, another false lead," grumbled Dean as he slammed his Impala's door shut and stuffed a hot dog into his mouth.

"You know, that's probably a good thing," said Sam as he climbed into the passenger seat, closed the door, and began unwrapping a questionable-looking tuna sandwich. The Impala sat in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven in downtown Wilmington, Delaware. It turns out that in Murder Town USA, a string of mysterious deaths is not unusual at all.

"Good for most people," said Dean, chomping on his hot dog. "But I'm bored out of my mind. We've been chasing false leads for weeks now."

As if on cue, Sam felt one of his two cell phones vibrate. He withdrew it from his pocket and flipped it open. This phone was special; it only had one number on its contacts list: Captain George Wilkerson of the Night Police. Sam read the text message aloud.

"Looking for some excitement? Go to the Rodin Museum in Philadelphia. Leave immediately. Tell the agents that you are with Wellington Insurance and were sent by George."

"You know," said Dean as he started the Impala and rumbled out of the parking lot, "I'm glad that we're getting some action, but I don't like how he knows that we're near Philadelphia."

Sam looked up at the electronic toll transponder mounted at the top of the windshield. "I think that's a small price to pay for hundreds of dollars of tolls," he said, knowing that they would encounter yet another toll as they shot up I-95.

* * *

Dean gingerly maneuvered the Impala between the two cars, almost hitting the one behind him. "I hate parallel parking," he grumbled. "How do these people do it?" After almost ten minutes, he finally inched the car over to the curb.

Sam opened the passenger door and stepped out. They were parked two blocks from the Rodin Museum. Sam could very clearly see the red and blue flashing of police lights. "Looks like we're in the right place."

Sam and Dean strolled over to the museum, trying their best to fit in with bustling Philadelphians on the sidewalk. As they approached, they saw a half-dozen cars belonging to the Philadelphia Police Department parked on the street in front of the museum, lights flashing. On the lawn in front of the museum, seven unmarked cars were parked between the trees and bushes.

"I feel naked like this," whispered Dean. "Are you sure we shouldn't have brought our handguns?"

"Last time we dealt with these people, I thought we were going to get shot," replied Sam in a low voice. "This time, we don't have Wilkerson to bail us out. I think it's best that we look as nonthreatening as possible."

The Rodin Museum was a small, white, marble building that looked like a miniature Greek temple. Sam and Dean could see a dozen Philadelphia police officers standing guard amidst the tall oak trees that sprang up intermittently from the grass lawn surrounding the museum. Doing their best to look like they belonged, the brothers walked right up to the entrance of the museum. They made it about halfway along the path before they were stopped.

"Sorry folks, but the museum is closed today," said a uniformed police officer. "Please move along."

"We're not tourists," said Dean, doing his best to stand up straight and look important. "I'm Mr. Redford, this is Mr. Schuster. We're with Wellington Insurance."

"I don't care who you are," began the officer, "You can't-"

"Wellington Insurance, you say?" interrupted a man in a black suit, walking up from behind the officer. He had a pale, white face that was instantly forgettable; he wouldn't have looked out of place in the cubicles of a Fortune 500 company. But contrary to his plain appearance, he walked with the confidence of a C-level executive and spoke with the assertiveness of a used car salesman. "Please, come with me."

"But sir, these people are-"

"They are just here to follow-up with the insurance claim," said the man, seeming to grow in stature and tower over the officer. "We'll deal with them." The man turned and walked towards the museum. Without a word, Sam and Dean followed.

They didn't have far to go. After rounding a bronze statue of _The Thinker_ , they arrived at the Rodin Museum's main entrance. Or rather, they arrived at a missing door.

Between the pillars adorning the museum's entrance was an empty space in the wall, about twenty feet high and thirteen feet wide. Looking through the space, Sam and Dean saw a large room filled with metal sculptures. It was clear there should have been a door, but looked like it had just vanished.

Five men and one woman, all in suits, stood in front of the empty door frame. Four of the men were looking out at the lawn, obviously standing guard. The woman and one of the men were examining the empty door frame. Sam and Dean were brought right up to them in the middle of an argument.

"I realize the security camera footage is useless," said the woman, voice raised with a hint of exasperation creeping in. "But Sergeant, there must be footage from a nearby storefront camera or traffic camera of a suspicious vehicle-"

"With all due respect, Lieutenant," interrupted the man, clearly holding back a temper, "We don't have the manpower to go through hours of footage-"

Sam and Dean's escort cleared his throat and saluted. "Lieutenant Vasquez, Sergeant Reynolds, these two men claim to be with Wellington Insurance."

Vasquez and Reynolds paused their argument and turned towards the brothers.

Lieutenant Vasquez looked at them with the intensity of a falcon studying a plump, injured mouse far below. She easily stood at least six inches shorter than Dean, but made up for it with an aura of assertiveness and aggression that seemed to burn like the heat of a four-alarm fire. Though she only looked a couple of years older than Dean, her crisp black suit and frown of impatience made her look like a mother addressing a stupid child. "Who sent you?" she demanded.

"George," answered Dean. "He said that there was something exciting going on here."

Sergeant Reynolds sighed. His rumpled, worn pinstriped suit could barely contain his plump beer belly. His shoulders seemed to be perpetually slumped and it seemed as if he was just counting down the days until his retirement. He absently rubbed at his greying mustache. "George, you say? What's he up to these days?"

"We don't have time for storytelling!" snapped Lieutenant Vasquez. "I don't know or care why Wilkerson sent you specifically here, but since he's trying to recruit you, I'll put on the bare minimum song and dance and then send you on your way. This case is too big for the likes of you two," she said, not bothering to hide her contempt.

Dean looked like he was going to respond with an insult, but Sam shot him a look.

"Approximately two hours ago," began Vasquez, "Our local patrol unit was alerted to the theft of _The Gates of Hell_ , a sculpture created by, obviously, Auguste Rodin. This particular sculpture is a bronze cast of the original. It has been under the care of the Philadelphia Museum of Art for many decades. As you can see, it also served as the Rodin Museum's main entrance.

"What makes this sculpture so unique is that Auguste Rodin, perhaps unintentionally, or perhaps not, imbued it with magical properties. The twisted imagery actually gives the sculpture a natural affinity for summoning rituals."

"So," interrupted Dean, "You're saying that _The Gates of Hell_ … could actually be used to open a gate to Hell?"

Reynolds smirked and Vasquez groaned. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. We need to find whoever stole this before it gets used as a summoning tool. That's why I'm here from the Office of Artifact Recovery."

She pulled a pair of glasses from her breast pocket and handed them to Dean. "Look through these."

The glasses had a thick, black frame and lenses almost as thick as those on safety goggles. Dean put them on and his world completely changed.

As if someone had turned out the lights, the bright, sunny day became a pitch-black void. Streaks of color, as smooth as the brush stroke of a master calligrapher, were suspended in the void. Dean focused on a streak of green and saw that it was the outline of one of the many trees surrounding the museum. He turned back to where he remembered Vasquez and Reynolds were standing and he saw two rainbow halos surrounding their black silhouettes. The colors of the halos flowed and pulsed like sunlight reflecting off of a flowing river, displaying every color in the visible spectrum. But he noticed that Vasquez's halo seemed to be dominated by a fiery red, while Reynold's halo favored a more subdued royal blue. Sam's halo, he noted, was a bright emerald green, but was also dotted with specks of grey.

Dean now turned towards the empty door frame. The edges of the door frame, though empty when viewed without the glasses, were caked with a faded, blood-red hue. He took the glasses off and handed them back to Vasquez.

"What the hell was all that?" he asked.

"Auras," said Vasquez, slipping the glasses back into her pocket. "Every living thing has an aura, as you could probably see. And everything with supernatural properties does, too. And like a fingerprint, every aura is unique, making it the perfect tool for tracking things down."

"But your aura was all bright red. What does that mean?"

Vasquez's face contorted in anger and embarrassment, but Reynolds stepped in before she could respond. "Auras reflect on their owner," he said. "A person's aura is a reflection of their personality and inner thoughts. You probably saw that mine had a lot of blue in it. That's because I'm as easygoing as they come."

Dean jerked his thumb in Sam's direction. "Well, Sam's was a bright green and had spots of-"

Dean was interrupted by the ringing of a cell phone. Reynolds withdrew a small phone from his breast pocket and flipped it open. "Sergeant Tim Reynolds, Northeast Patrol District," he answered. His lighthearted smile immediately turned into a frown. "Good, we'll get on it right away. Keep the target in sight."

He put his phone away and turned to Vasquez. "Our helicopter, Foxtrot, has sighted a matching aura. It's in a plain white box truck headed north on I-95, sighted near Exit 23."

Vasquez wasted no time. "You heard him," she announced to the men standing guard. "Let's go! Apprehend the suspect before he figures out how to use the artifact!" The officers scattered to their cars.

She turned to Reynolds. "Go through our contact with the Philadelphia Police Department and have them shut down traffic on that section of highway. We don't want to endanger the public." She started towards her car.

Reynolds ran his hand through what little gray hair he had left, pre-emptively wiping beads of sweat. "But what do I tell them?"

She rolled her eyes and turned. "I don't know, tell them there's a bomb in the truck."

"Tell them that the FBI's art theft division is chasing down a bomb threat?"

"Just figure something out," Vasquez snapped. "And are you two just going to stand there or come with me?" she asked Sam and Dean.

She turned and walked towards her car. Without a word, Sam and Dean followed, wondering what they had gotten themselves into.

When Dean saw the car, he couldn't help but chuckle. Vasquez drove a dark blue 2005 Honda Accord. She immediately climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. Dean called shotgun, and Sam sat behind him.

"So what's this thing have? 2 horsepower?" joked Dean.

"Not quite," retorted Vasquez as she gunned her car's V-6 engine, dodging trees and then cars as the car rushed from the Rodin Museum's manicured lawn to the bumpy streets of Philadelphia. Tires squealed and horns sounded as she wove between cars like a Formula 1 driver.

"What happens if we get pulled over?" asked Sam, anxiously gripping the seat as the sedan sped through traffic.

"That won't be a problem," said Vasquez. She flicked a switch on the console, activating previously-hidden police lights and a siren. To the outside world, they now looked like an unmarked police car rushing to an emergency. Vehicles in front of them moved to the side of the road and Vasquez sped up even more.

"So…," began Dean, trying to appear confident, "We never formally introduced ourselves back there. I'm Dean, and back there's my brother Sam."

"Lieutenant Susan Vasquez," she replied, never taking her eyes off the road. "Night Police, Research and Development Division, Bureau of Artifacts, Office of Artifact Recovery."

She made a sharp turn, tires screeching as the car sprinted through a traffic circle. Dean would have flown out of his seat if not for the seat belt.

"So… what's your story? How'd you get started in the Night Police?"

Vasquez was silent for a moment, eyes briefly flicking in Dean's direction before returning to the road. "I was one of those kids who grew up constantly being told to 'follow their passion'. So in college, I studied art history. After graduation, reality hit me when I learned that there aren't many museum jobs to go around. So instead of displaying art, I found a job recovering art. I joined ICE and spent a few years as a special agent in the Cultural Property, Art, and Antiquities division. I wanted a similar job in the Night Police, and now I investigate the theft of magical artifacts."

"Why join the Night Police?"

"I saw a chupacabra," said Vasquez, with an expression of total seriousness. Dean decided not to press the matter any further.

After a few more blocks of dodging traffic, Vasquez turned onto an on-ramp for I-676 and merged into speeding traffic, cars dutifully moving to the side at the sight of her flashing lights. The interchange with I-95 was only about half a mile away.

Following the signs for I-95, the Honda Accord flew up the on-ramp at nearly 100 miles per hour. But after rounding the bend, Vasquez slammed on the brakes and the car screeched to a halt, barely avoiding contact with a minivan in front of her.

I-95 was a parking lot. Thousands of cars, vans, and trucks sat unmoving, horns honking fruitlessly. Even with her flashing police lights, Vasquez had nowhere to go.

She picked up the radio transmitter in her car's center console. "Foxtrot, what is the status of the Philadelphia Police Department's road closure?"

A static-filled voice echoed through the receiver. "The PPD has shut down all I-95 north lanes beginning just south of Exit 23. They have a bunch of patrol cars blocking the highway there. It also looks like they are blocking all on-ramps from Exit 23 onward. The only vehicles on the road past that point are the suspect vehicle and a few dozen civilians that managed to get by before the road closure."

Vasquez looked down the highway. A few hundred feet away, a sign taunted her: "Exit 23: Girard Ave, Lehigh Ave, ¾ Mile". And a few hundred feet beyond the sign, Vasquez saw the flashing lights of police cars forming a road block.

"Goddamnit!" she fumed. She looked ahead: an unmoving white minivan. She looked behind: a whole line of traffic. She looked to the left: more stuck traffic. She looked to the right: a very narrow, but empty, shoulder.

"Hang on, boys," she said as her car swerved onto the shoulder, with only a few inches between the traffic on her left and the concrete barrier on her right. She pushed the pedal to the floor, and both Sam and Dean sunk back into their seats with fear.

"Hey, what's that?" said Dean, pointing ahead. A wooden barricade with a mounted orange sign blocked the shoulder. "Shoulder work ahead."

"Don't worry about it," replied Vasquez coolly. She applied more pressure to the pedal, and the small Honda Accord burst through the wooden barricade and through a set of plastic orange drums.

Five hundred feet away, construction workers raked and smoothed freshly-paved asphalt across the full width of the shoulder. At the sight of Vasquez bearing down on them, they immediately dropped their tools, sprinted for the edge of the road, and jumped over the concrete barrier, just as Vasquez whizzed by.

After a few more hundred feet, they finally made it to the road closure. As soon as they passed the closure, Vasquez immediately swerved back onto the road and accelerated even more up the now-empty highway.

"Foxtrot, where is the suspect vehicle?"

"He just passed Exit 27. He's driving a leisurely 55 miles per hour in the right lane. No reaction to the thinning traffic."

Vasquez gunned it. Dean's eyes went wide as he saw the speedometer creep up to 120 miles per hour.

Exits 25, 26, 27, 30, and 32 flashed by. Slow-moving vehicles moved out of her way like a gazelle herd fleeing a lion. And then, on the horizon, just past Exit 35, she saw it: an unmarked, white box truck traveling slowly up the right lane. At the sight of her flashing lights, it sped up.

Vasquez easily closed the distance. The lumbering box truck was no match for her small car's V-6 engine. "Careful, Vasquez," cautioned Foxtrot. "Other responding officers are at least fifteen minutes away."

"Vasquez!" thundered the voice of Sergeant Reynolds over the radio. "Don't you dare engage him on your own! We don't know what kind of-"

With a click, Vasquez shut off the receiver.

The Honda Accord was now only fifty feet behind the box truck. Without warning, the truck's door opened slightly, only about a foot, revealing a dark, cloaked figure silhouetted against an even darker interior. The figure raised its hand; Vasquez swore and immediately swerved to the left as a column of flame shot from the back of the truck.

"They're goddamn warlocks!" cursed Vasquez as she swung her car back into position behind the truck.

The cloaked figure raised his hand again and Vasquez prepared to dodge, but this time, instead of fire, a cloud of pure black smoke erupted from the back of the truck. Vasquez immediately slammed on her brakes, squealing to a stop. The smoke before them spread across the width of the highway like a dense fog. Like the black curtain of a stage play, it was impossible to see through it.

She turned her radio back on. "Foxtrot, do you still have a visual on truck?"

"Affirmative, it's still headed north on I-95. It's at the head of that column of black smoke."

"Roger, I'm going in." She turned off her radio before Sergeant Reynolds could interject again.

She made sure that all of her windows were rolled up, then flicked a switch on the air freshener clipped to her dashboard vent; the car was immediately filled with the heavy odor of garlic and rosemary. After taking a deep breath and steadying herself, she turned on her car's headlights and flicked a hidden switch on the back of her steering wheel. The yellow light cast by her headlights turned into a pure white beam that cut through the black smoke like a knife through butter. "Let's go."

They plunged into the smoke, the path ahead illuminated by two lances of Holy Light. But on the other three sides of the car, there was nothing pitch black. Looking out the window, Sam and Dean saw twisted, shadowy figures lurking in the darkness, keeping their distance.

"What the hell are those things?" asked Sam in a low voice.

"Smoke demons," answered Vasquez. "This is a cloud of demonic smoke, after all. The little brother of hellfire. We'll be safe in here, just keep your window up."

After a few minutes of cautious driving, they emerged on the other side of the smoke cloud, which was already starting to dissipate. "It doesn't last long, it's just a temporary summon," explained Vasquez as she flicked off her air freshener and turned off the Holy Light. "But still dangerous if you go in unprepared." She turned on her radio.

"Foxtrot, where is the suspect?"

"The truck just got off I-95 at Exit 37. Made a right onto Street Road."

"Roger," she said as she accelerated back up to highway speed. "I am still in pursuit."

"Lieutenant Vasquez!" shouted Reynolds through the radio. "I highly recommend that you wait for backup!"

"No can do, Sergeant. I've confirmed that the perpetrators are warlocks. They are probably planning to use the _Gate_ to summon something big. We must stop them before that. I will engage them as soon as possible. Over and out." They were now at Exit 37.

"They turned right onto State Road," reported Foxtrot. "And now they're turned into the parking lot of a warehouse. The sign by the road says 'United Refrigeration'. They opened a door and now they're pulling into the warehouse."

"Copy that, Foxtrot," said Vasquez, right as she turned onto Street Road. She shut off her siren and flashing lights. Silently, her car cruised down Street Road, turned right onto State Road, and then pulled into a parking lot across the street from the United Refrigeration warehouse. She turned her car off and surveyed the building.

"Not much going on over there," observed Dean.

The parking lot of the one-story brick warehouse was empty. A "For Rent - Space Available" sign stood on an overgrown grass lawn. The few windows were covered with cardboard.

"Let's get ready, boys," said Vasquez as she exited her vehicle. Sam and Dean followed her lead and stood next to her as she opened the trunk.

The trunk was completely empty. Vasquez reached in with both hands and lifted the matting, revealing the spare tire well. But instead of a spare tire, this Honda Accord had a gun locker.

Vasquez reached up to her neck, opened the top two buttons on her white blouse, reached in, and uncovered a necklace with a thick iron chain. Attached to the necklace were a variety of charms: a silver crucifix, a small glass nazar, a gilded Eye of Horus, and even a small glass terrarium with a living four-leaf clover. She unclipped a small silver key from the iron chain and unlocked the door to the gun locker.

Inside was an assault rifle, a pump-action shotgun, a crossbow, and several steel ammunition boxes. She passed the assault rifle to Sam and the shotgun to Dean, then started going through the ammunition boxes. She opened one labelled 'General Protection' and withdrew two necklaces identical to hers as well as two small folded nylon sheets. "Put these necklaces on underneath your shirts," she said as she handed one each to Sam and Dean. "Make sure they are in contact with your bare skin. These will protect you from indirect magical attacks. They won't be able to possess or mind control you, but please jump out of the way if they throw a fireball at you."

She then handed them the nylon sheets. "Keep these in your pocket. They are inscribed with a circle of protection. If at any point things get too dangerous in there, unfold them and stand in them. Once you are in standing in them, do not break the plane of the circle, or its magic will be voided. So no matter what happens, no matter what threats are made, _do not leave the circle_. You will be safe from 99 percent of all supernatural threats. The only things that can get into the circle are normal, non-supernatural humans and animals. Or if the attackers somehow have knowledge of an ancient magic that we have not yet discovered. But if we are forced to pull these out, _do not leave the circle_ and wait for backup to save us."

Then, she pulled out an ammunition box labelled 'Mages'. Inside were several boxes of shotgun shells and magazines for the assault rifle as well as for a handgun. Vasquez passed a box of shotgun shells to Dean and a pair of rifle magazines to Sam. Then, she reached into her suit jacket and withdrew a handgun from her sling holster. She swapped out the magazine for one in the 'Mages' box.

"These bullets were specially designed to disrupt a mage's magic circuits. All magic users - wizards, witches, sorcerers, warlocks, what have you - have magic circuits that enable them to harness and cast magic. These magic circuits enable mages to focus magical energy into a form suitable for spellcasting.

"These bullets and shotgun slugs are made with meteoric iron and fabricated with a process adapted from the Phurba daggers of Tibetan Buddhism. Once they pierce a mage's flesh, they will deactivate the magic circuits, rendering the mage powerless."

Vasquez closed the ammunition box and returned it to its place, between the ammunition boxes marked 'Lycans' and 'Vampires'.

"How do you know that these guys are warlocks?" asked Dean as Vasquez closed the gun locker. "What separates them from a witch or wizard?"

"Wizards and witches need an incantation to cast magic," she answered. "When the truck door opened, this guy conjured fire without needing any time to focus and say an incantation."

She closed the trunk and replaced the key to the locker on her necklace. "And sorcerers get their magic from the natural magic currents that flow through the world, like a Jedi or something. We keep tabs on all known sorcerers in the US, and they don't need to summon anything to do some serious damage. Plus, they tend to be so far stuck up their own ass that they would never be caught dead 'degrading' themselves with a summoning.

"But warlocks are different. Instead of burying themselves in spellbooks like a witch or wizard or channeling the natural magic currents like a sorcerer, warlocks get their magic by making a pact with a demonic entity. The warlock gives them some blood, a piece of their soul, and a nice sacrifice, and the demon lets them borrow some powers. The more powerful the demon and the better-worded the pact, the stronger the warlock's powers. My guess is that these warlocks want to summon a very powerful demon in order to get some very powerful magic."

She turned to the warehouse across the street. "Now let's go."

They sprinted across the street and pressed themselves up against the warehouse's brick facade. Vasquez led them around the side of the building to a row of six steel bay doors. Next to the bay doors was a small door. Sam and Vasquez positioned themselves on either side of the door. After confirming that their weapons' flashlight attachments worked, Vasquez nodded. Dean aimed the shotgun at the door latch and fired. With a loud bang, the door's latch broke. Vasquez immediately opened the door and cleared the right side of the room, Sam the left side, and Dean the center.

They were in a large, dark room about the size of a football field. The walls and floor of the room were bare, dusty concrete; the ceiling was hidden behind a maze of rusted steel trusses and clouds of ancient fireproofing material. The only light sources were the flashlight attachments on their weapons and the sunlight that seeped in through the breached door. In the center of the room sat the white box truck.

The trio approached the box truck with the precision of a SWAT team. Vasquez checked the rear and underneath; Sam and Dean swept the sides, front, and the unlocked cabin. Finding nothing, they returned to the rear of the truck.

"Cover me," whispered Vasquez. She holstered her handgun and placed both hands on the truck's door latch. Dean took up position behind her, shotgun aimed at the door, and Sam stood back, keeping an eye on the surroundings. Vasquez turned the latch, flung the door open, and drew her handgun. But the truck was empty.

She used the flashlight attachment on her handgun to sweep the inside of the truck. _The Gates of Hell_ bronze statue stood silently at the back of the truck bay, gleaming dully in the beam of the flashlight. Vasquez sighed with relief. But then she swept her flashlight to the floor of the truck and inhaled sharply. She spotted a summoning circle inscribed with white chalk, a puddle of dried blood, and the remains of white candles.

She reached for the radio clipped to her belt. "Reynolds, this is Vasquez. It looks like the suspects have already summoned something, over." But when she released the transmit button, all she heard was static.

As if on cue, the door that they had come through slammed shut on its own and their flashlights fizzled out, plunging them into darkness. Then, the concrete floor started to echo with the pitter-patter of thousands of tiny footsteps and an impish giggle began to reverberate throughout the room, slowly growing louder.

"Do not panic," said Vasquez, partially to herself. "Press the round, white button on the flashlight attachments."

Sam and Dean fumbled in the darkness, groping along the flashlights until they found the button. When they pressed it, a white lance of Holy Light erupted from them, piercing the darkness. The pitter-patter stopped. Sam, Dean, and Vasquez looked around the empty warehouse in silence, Holy Light illuminating the walls.

"Do you think that will save you?!" boomed a deep voice that seemed to come out of nowhere and echoed around the room. Without warning, Sam, Dean, and Vasquez were each struck by an invisible force and flung to opposite sides of the warehouse.

Sam flew one hundred feet and tumbled to the concrete floor. With a groan, he sat up. The assault rifle lay twenty feet away, wrenched out of his hands by the force of the blow. He slowly stood up, and that's when he noticed the smell of smoke.

* * *

Across the warehouse, Dean lay in a heap. He had been thrown against the wall. He was battered and bruised. The shotgun lay at his feet. He tried to stand, but a sharp pain in his left leg forced him back to the floor. His nostrils flared at the smell of smoke, and he saw twisted, nightmarish forms begin to materialize in the darkness. He swore and reached for the shotgun, just as a massive, hulking form materialized in front of him.

He lifted the shotgun and aimed the beam of Holy Light square into the middle of the figure; it emitted a terrible shriek like a dying cat and then faded away into the darkness. Dean swiveled the shotgun, using the Holy Light to keep the demonic smoke at bay.

"Sam?! Susan?! Where the hell are you guys?" he shouted. He coughed as the smoke infiltrated his lungs.

* * *

Sam unfolded the nylon sheet inscribed with the circle of protection. In the darkness, he could see dozens of shadowy, smoke-filled forms lurking between him and the assault rifle, daring him to try and press on. Instead, he decided to buy some time.

With smoke filling his lungs, Sam limped onto the nylon sheet and into the circle of protection. Inside was immediate relief from the smoke; he took a deep breath of smoke-free air and did his best to calm down and think straight. The demonic smoke wafted around the edges of the circle, probing for a weakness, waiting for him to mess up and break the plane.

"Dean?! Vasquez?! I'm over here!" he shouted. But his voice only seemed to echo back at him from the smoke.

"They're probably dead by now," said a low, deep voice from only about ten feet away. Sam turned and nearly jumped out of the circle.

Standing in the darkness amidst the demonic smoke was a black, cloaked figure, just like the one on the truck during the car chase.

"Who the hell are you?!" demanded Sam.

The figure did not answer, but instead approached Sam and knelt down outside the circle of protection. "Hmm. Interesting. This is the most comprehensive circle of protection that I've ever seen." He stood up and inserted a pale, sickly hand into the depths of his cloak and withdrew a long, shiny, curved knife. "Unfortunately for you, it only protects against magical threats."

The figure drew his arm back in a stabbing stance and Sam closed his eyes, but before the knife plunged forward, a loud boom reverberated around the warehouse, followed by a gentle sizzle. Sam and his attacker both looked towards to the center of the room, where a parachute flare emanating pure Holy Light was now floating gently to the floor. Dozens of smoke demons howled in pain as they de-materialized, vanquished by the light. The atmosphere inside the warehouse instantly returned to normal.

"But… how?" asked the cloaked figure, arms down at his sides, at a loss for words.

Instead of answering, Sam sucker punched him in the back of the head with as much force as he could muster.

* * *

When the demonic smoke vanished, Dean immediately saw a cloaked figure standing twenty feet in front of him.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Who the hell are you?!"

"None of your business," shot back the warlock indignantly. "I'll just have to finish you myself." He conjured a fireball into his right hand and prepared to throw.

"Not today, you son of a bitch," said Dean defiantly. He raised the shotgun, aimed it right at the warlock's chest, and pulled the trigger. But instead of a boom, Dean only heard a mechanical _click_ as the trigger mechanism malfunctioned.

"Did you honestly think I wouldn't take care of that?" taunted the warlock, eager to gloat. "I had my demons make sure that your nasty gun wouldn't be able to fire."

"What about mine?" said Vasquez's voice from behind him. Before the warlock could turn around, three bangs echoed across the warehouse and three bullets found their mark, piercing into the warlock's chest. The warlock doubled over and howled in pain as the blood seeped through his cloak, and the conjured fire unceremoniously snuffed out. Vasquez put iron handcuffs on him and, disregarding his injuries, threw him to the ground.

She extended a hand to Dean and helped him up.

"Did you forget about the circle of protection?" asked Vasquez.

"No, I'm just too stubborn to use one," said Dean, grimacing as he put weight on his left leg. "How did you get us out of that?"

"I used a flare gun," she answered as she guided Dean to the other side of the room. "Standard-issue for officers. I would have used it sooner, but my assigned warlock buddy decided to try and roughhouse with me, so I returned the favor and kicked his ass the old-fashioned way."

On the other side of the room, Sam stood guard over the unconscious warlock until Vasquez placed handcuffs on him. Then, he collapsed to the floor.

"That was more than I bargained for," he said.

"Tell me about it," said Dean, plopping down next to him.

Vasquez turned on her radio to contact the other officers, but before she could hit the transmit button, she heard sirens outside. Car doors slammed, and Sergeant Reynolds and the other Night Police officers ran in, weapons drawn.

"Lieutenant Vasquez!" said Sergeant Reynolds, his face locked into an expression of exasperation. "I realize that you outrank me, but this… this is just too much!" He threw up his hands helplessly.

"Don't worry, Sergeant," said Vasquez. "The important thing is that we caught the perpetrators, and now everything will be okay. You should know by now that I like to do things my way."

"Yes, ma'am," answered Reynolds, shoulders sagged in defeat. He saluted and ambled away to direct his men.

Vasquez turned to Sam and Dean and helped each of them up. "Thanks for your help today," she said with a smirk. "You two still have a long way to go, but I can see why Wilkerson likes you."

"That's great and all," said Dean, "but what happens now?"

"Well, those three warlocks are going to get their magic circuits permanently disrupted, and then they'll be charged and tried for their crimes."

"Tried? You mean, in a court?" asked Sam.

"We have our own justice system," said Vasquez. "You'll see it eventually, if you join us."

"We'll worry about that later," said Dean. "Right now, I just want a Philly cheese steak. Or three."

Vasquez gave a rare smile. She reached into her pocket and gave a wide-eyed Sam a large fold of bills. "This should cover a few cheesesteaks. Get out of here before the clean-up crew comes in and interrogates you. I'll call a cab to meet you across the street."

"Thanks," said Dean, with a matching smile. "But can I also get your phone number?"

Vasquez just smirked and walked away.


End file.
